


we’d both be laughing in the end

by kayabiter



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: First Kiss, Letters, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:34:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29435400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayabiter/pseuds/kayabiter
Summary: The roof tiles are hot under his hand, warmed by the late summer sun that is already climbing down. The red of the tiles is almost the same colour as the strands of Gawain’s hair where they escaped a braid and hang over his bowed face as he ties the horse to the post near the porch.From his vantage point near the chimney, Lancelot studies them in silence. Greetings are hardly needed; with how much they dwell in each other’s thoughts, any separation seems a temporary obstacle.Almost any. With knights, one always has to account for death—the roads they take diverge with no promise of ever meeting again.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	we’d both be laughing in the end

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Valerin Berenghar (Valerin)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valerin/gifts), [Reynier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reynier/gifts).



> Lancewain Discord bingo prompts: secrets, rooftop talks, letter, first kiss, comfort, bliss, serenade, Goliath.  
> Chapter title from The Crane Wives - Allies or Enemies.

The roof tiles are hot under his hand, warmed by the late summer sun that is already climbing down. The red of the tiles is almost the same colour as the strands of Gawain’s hair where they escaped a braid and hang over his bowed face as he ties the horse to the post near the porch. 

From his vantage point near the chimney, Lancelot studies them in silence. Greetings are hardly needed; with how much they dwell in each other’s thoughts, any separation seems a temporary obstacle.

Almost any. With knights, one always has to account for death—the roads they take diverge with no promise of ever meeting again. Lancelot dislikes thinking about that uncertainty the most, but it looms the darkest, the war so often throwing them to the opposite sides of the kingdom.

It is only when the attic window creaks open, and Gawain steps out to join him, that they meet each other’s eyes. The hushed silence stretches, filled only with the crickets and an occasional bird call, until Gawain breaks it. His face unreadable, he nods at the letter Lancelot is holding in his hand.

“Forgive me for it. I shouldn’t have written it.”

Ears ringing, Lancelot breathes out, holds the emptiness in his lungs. “Why?”

“I did not expect to come back. It was cowardly of me—I should have either said it to your face or carried the secret to my grave.”

Huffing, the air achingly sweet as he inhales, Lancelot lifts his hand. The letter is clutched between two fingers, uneven smudged lines running through it. The setting sun glints off a thin silver ring.

“It  _ is  _ one hell of a thing to write to someone,” he remarks calmly. “You should stop turning my world upside down in a hope you would not live long enough to face me after.”

The green eyes fixed on him are almost transparent in the light of the dying sun. Around them, the woods are growing darker, the shadows of the elms reaching the steps of the house now. Gawain is silent, stray red strands fluttering in the breeze. It carries with it the scent of distant rain coming closer.

“Thank you for sending Goliath,” he utters suddenly, his voice quiet. “I would not have made it out of there without him.” Clenching his fists, Gawain pauses, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “You can ignore it. We can forget about it.”

The first droplet of rain falls on the tiles next to Lancelot’s hand. The wind picks up, rustling the dark leaves. He considers the offer, while Gawain watches him as he would an axe falling down to sever his head.

“Stop being a coward,” Lancelot says evenly, shifting his eyes to the horizon. “And come sit with me, lover.”

The tension dissolves, acrid black smoke scattered by a gale. Obeying, Gawain steps closer, lowering himself on the tiles and nursing his left arm as he swings his feet over the edge. 

Shivering from a gust of wind, Lancelot studies ochre and cadmium blending into black.

“I love you, too,” he murmurs. “I really do.”

Giving him a sideways glance, Gawain smirks and goes back to staring at his feet, dangling high above the ground. He does not say anything, but out of the corner of his eye, Lancelot sees him fail to fight back a growing smile.

“How is your arm?” Lancelot asks because these things make more sense and are easier to settle into their right places, right where he prefers them.

“I’ll live,” Gawain promises, then kicks the air and looks up with a wry grin. “No writing for a bit, but you do not look in the mood, so little loss there. A serenade, mayhaps?”

“God forbid,” Lancelot mutters, with more feeling than anything he has said so far. The memory of Arthur singing, appropriately, under Gwen’s balcony, is still too fresh in everyone’s mind; though they have tacitly agreed not to bring up that she barely had time to roll out of Lancelot’s bed to greet her suitor.

It is the glitter of all that is not gold, intrigues and courtesy. It all does not matter; so Lancelot says instead: “We can enjoy the silence.”

With a short nod from Gawain, they do just that. The quiet is filled with crickets, again, but a rumble of thunder is approaching fast, more frequent and lasting. 

Inhaling sharply, Lancelot tastes the scent of rain growing stronger, the droplets landing on the heated skin of his cheeks. Letting out a sigh, he hides the crumpled letter in his collar and leans to the side, lifting a hand to cradle Gawain’s cheek. 

Their fingers weave together, as Gawain readily meets him halfway. His lips are soft and chapped when Lancelot kisses them for the first time. The second time, they are curled in a smile, and Lancelot gives it back to him with another kiss.

Around them, the twilight settles, the sun drowning in thunder clouds full of rain. They do not try to escape the rain when it comes to discover their embrace—it is unable, anyway, to break the pure bliss, held in the air between their mouths.

The ink runs, ruined by the water soaking the fine wool; but Lancelot just laughs, blinking the rain away as Gawain shakes a fist at the skies, their laughter drowned out by another roll of thunder.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's, for those who celebrate :)


End file.
